


Coming Home

by glaivenoct



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24911968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glaivenoct/pseuds/glaivenoct
Summary: When a knock raps at her door, she thinks it must be someone with a casserole. Someone fraught with sympathy, ready to offer condolences for her loss in the form of homemade food.
Relationships: Nyx Ulric & Nyx Ulric's Mother
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	Coming Home

When a knock raps at her door, she thinks it must be someone with a casserole. Someone fraught with sympathy, ready to offer condolences for her loss in the form of homemade food. It’s amusing - she had spent most of her life reciting to her children how “There are few things in this world that food can’t fix.” She would say it right before whipping up comfort food or some treat for them when she sensed they were troubled, even if it was at the most ungodly hour. Yet, when she imagines a foil covered dish being offered to her, followed by the deepest condolences, it brings her no comfort.

It brings her nothing but a sour taste in her throat, like the burn of bile.

She thinks a woman of her age should know when optimism becomes futile rather than empowering. Uncertainty has a funny way of distorting that, and in recent days it’s been the worst part of this whole mess.

Fear gripped her heart like never before when she first heard the news. Insomnia had fallen to the destruction of the Empire. The King was found dead. The Prince and The Oracle were presumed to be dead, along with hundreds of other kingsglaive soldiers, crownsguards and civilians. 

She didn’t expect an answer the first time she grabbed the phone and called Nyx, but she didn’t have the heart to put it off. She didn’t have the heart to let herself buy so quickly into the idea that there was no hope. 

Her son was strong, after all. An absolute magnet for trouble, but _strong_ and a survivor. 

Libertus’ call initially gave her hope. That he was keeping an ear out. That he and Nyx had agreed to “settle up” back home. That he just had a few things to take care of and he’d be expecting Nyx to make it there before him. Though the more Libertus spoke, the more she sensed the subtlest threads of wavering confidence in him. As if he’d spent hours rehearsing a lie until it became the truth, only for that truth to start shattering before him in demonstration. 

Regardless, it was too early to discount hope. 

It’s been a week since then. Nyx hasn’t called, and each day he doesn’t, the sun appears bleaker and bleaker to her tired eyes.

She hasn’t gone a day without someone asking her if she’s heard anything, or someone saying they were praying for her son’s safe return home.

Prayer. She hasn’t believed in prayers for years. Not since she lost Selena. Yet, at her most restless moments in the insufferable quiet of night, she can’t help but plead for Nyx’s return as well. Not to any god in particular, just to any that may be willing to listen. Any that may be willing to have mercy on her heart.

She starts to think that no one may be.

So when there’s a knock at her door, she considers not getting up to open it. She considers staying here on the couch and accepting that it’s time to mourn. If everyone else is starting to expect the worst, why not her too? Right?

Still, the thought of refusing another’s hospitality doesn’t sit well with her. She always told Nyx and Selena to say their thanks and show appreciation when presented with it. She stands up and heads for the door.

When she opens it, there are no sympathetic neighbors waiting with a casserole. 

“Surprise.” His smile looks forced and he seems to be out of breath. He’s leaned against the threshold as if for support. “I’m alive… sort of.”

Could… it be?

She holds her breath, raising a trembling hand as if she means to reach out to touch him. He reeks of sweat and smoke, and the sides of his face are… scarred silver, like rouge strikes of lighting had imprinted into the skin. Her hand follows where they run down his neck, to the bare arm that appears sickly ashen - all the way to the tips of his fingers. The uniform she’s only seen a handful of times in pictures is threadbear and filthy, one of the sleeves missing entirely.

He looks like he’s _barely_ alive. His sunken eyes, not as bright or as full of life as she remembers, plead with her to say something. To give some sort of reaction.

She brings her hand to his cheek, and almost flinches when the pads of her fingers meet the rough, silver scarred skin. His shoulders sag and his eyes flutter shut, a breath shakily leaving his lips as he leans into the tender caress of her thumb.

She throws her arms around her son and tugs him close. Till there’s no space between them.

“You’re damn right you’re alive!”

She thinks the noise that comes out of Nyx is a laugh. Some jittering sigh of relief, perhaps. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and leans his weight against her. So much that she has to stop him from collapsing in her arms. She adjusts her grip on him and ends up sinking to the floor with him. 

Outside, people begin to gather and stare. One of her neighbors rushes up and offers to help.

She accepts it.

Nyx passes out the moment he’s eased onto the couch, and for a moment she fears he used his last breaths just to make it home. But no, once she gets a good look at him, he’s still breathing. Her neighbor, the sweet, young soul he is, says he’s going to get a hold of someone from the village clinic. Someone to at least get an initial look at Nyx and decide whether or not he’ll need more intense care. 

In the meantime, she fetches blankets and pillows, some old rags she has stored and an old bowl to fill with water. She gently washes Nyx’s face while she waits. 

The village doctor determines Nyx is severely dehydrated, and that the silver scarring on his skin is likely magic induced. There’s arrangements to get him IV fluids, and she’s told that, for the night, it’s best to let him rest. So long as he’s monitored closely, they’ll follow up on him tomorrow.

Naturally, she watches Nyx like a hawk, and spends her time washing the skin of his arm next. 

Nyx sleeps so peacefully for someone who looks like he’s been to hell and back. She almost expects him to start tossing and turning. To groan and mumble in his sleep and wake suddenly with a gasp or scream. He doesn’t. He’s still and dead to the world like someone who’s hardly slept in days. Someone who’s body is taking full advantage of the chance to finally shut down and recover.

She can’t imagine what he’s gone through. Libertus didn’t give her all the details, but knowing it was Niflheim… well, she lived through their destruction before, but Nyx has seen so much more since he enlisted.

The scars… she wonders what magic is powerful enough to _do that_.

“What trouble did you get yourself in and out of, Nyx?” She says softly, caressing the rough skin on his cheek. She notices a single stroke of silver in his hair as well.

No matter. She’ll find out everything in due time. 

In the morning, she leaves a message for Libertus and imagines he’ll call back frantically eager to talk to Nyx. She smiles at that thought. 

Nyx is still sleeping, and she’s not sure what to do with herself other than start cooking. Few things in the world food can’t fix, right? And by the gods, who knows the last time Nyx had a decent meal. Had he eaten at all before journeying home? He may very well be starving when he wakes up.

Best to make all his favorites. 

Best to find him comfortable clothes to change into. 

Best to make sure his old room is clean and tidy for later. To change the sheets and fluff the pillows. She won’t have him resting on that couch forever. 

“Ma?” She hears his hoarse voice in the afternoon when she’s carrying a basket of laundry. She nearly drops it in her rush to the living room. Nyx winces in his attempt to sit up, slow and steady. 

“Careful now,” she says, placing a hand on his back to help him. Nyx rolls his shoulders and crooks his neck, resting his fingers at the curve to soothe and massage. His eyes go wide and he jerks his hand away. He stares at it and his arm, scarred, but no longer ashen after she cleaned all that she could off him. 

He twists his arm around to see the other side, then reaches to touch the side of his face.

“You’re back in Galahd.” She tells him softly, just in case he’s confused. “You showed up yesterday. Barely made it a step before you passed out. What would one expect, traveling all the way from the Crown City, I presume?”

Nyx swallows, and she thinks she’ll need to fetch him a glass of ice water in just a moment. He stares at his hand for a moment and fidgets his fingers just above one of his knuckles, as if he were twisting a ring.

“Ma…” He looks up at her, slowly, and she can’t help but realize _how long_ it’s been since she last saw him. His eyes are brighter now, despite the confliction she can them harboring. “I don’t know where to start.”

She cups his face in her hands and leaves a warm kiss to his forehead. “Take your time, Nyx. You’re home now.”

The smile that touches his lips is small and tired, but it’s significant enough to make her eyes fill with tears and hug him close one last time.

Older and rougher around the edges he may be, but Nyx is finally home. He’s home, and she’s going to do everything in power to help him heal.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if this ended up being as profound as I _wanted_ it to be, but I've wanted to write something like this for a long time. What better time to do it than Nyx Week?


End file.
